The room was all polished brass and crisp uniforms, but Soap had eyes for only one thing—you, laughing as some officer placed a hand on your waist and spun you across the dance floor.

His grip tightened around his glass. A slow burn crawled up his spine.

Before he could think twice, he was moving. Smooth, deliberate, entirely unsubtle.

“Ah, hell,” he drawled, “clumsy hands.” His drink tipped, spilling dark whiskey across the man’s pristine dress uniform.

The officer jolted, cursing, but before he could react, Soap clapped a firm hand on his shoulder—and shoved. Just enough to send him stumbling back a step, just enough to make his point.

“Bit crowded in here, aye?” Soap mused, stepping neatly into his place. His hand slid to your waist like it belonged there. “Let’s keep ye from any more unfortunate incidents.”